


What can't be spoken

by SoonerOrLater



Series: A little Night Music [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-17
Updated: 2011-08-17
Packaged: 2017-10-22 17:49:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/240853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoonerOrLater/pseuds/SoonerOrLater
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's violin helps him think, but also helps him to say what he feels.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What can't be spoken

**Author's Note:**

> Part 2 of an exploration of music in Sherlock and John's relationship. Post TGG so slight spoilers.

John staggered up the seventeen stairs of Baker Street holding on to Sherlock for support while Mrs Hudson cooed bellow.

‘I’ll bring you some tea and cake up shortly, you both need feeding up, and hospital food does nobody any good.’

He felt Sherlock chuckle softly against him and winced in pain as he did the same on the fifteenth step he lost his footing and slipped. Sherlock quick as a cat tightened his grip and steadied him while John winced in pain as his broken ribs objected to the jolt. A flicker of concern furrowed Sherlock’s brow as John held up his hand to signal a pause as he regained composure. He’d forgotten just how painful broken ribs were. However, he reasoned that combined with a concussion and a few minor burns and cuts were a small price to pay for escaping the pool alive.

John had actually borne the worst of the injuries diving in front of Sherlock to cover him from the blast, as a result Sherlock had been released from the hospital the next day while John had remained for two days. Not that Sherlock had left, keeping a constant if virtually silent vigil while John slipped in and out of drug fuelled consciousness. He had a vague recollection of Mycroft appearing and a clipped argument between the brothers in which careless government and Mummy featured prominently other than that and a few enquiries after his care Sherlock had been silent, but ever present.

Making it to the familiar surroundings of the living room John gave a sigh of relief. He found himself manuvered to the sofa and eased to sitting by his companion who upon setting him down gave a curt nod and paused as though about to speak when Mrs Hudson interrupted. In a whirlwind of tea cakes and complaints about bloody hospitals and something about the dangers of gas leaks which John assumed was the official line for their injuries.

‘I mean, twice in two weeks to be caught in one Sherlock that’s unlucky even by your standards.’

John felt his eyes growing heavy as Mrs Hudson’s chatter blurred into a series of noises. Eventually Sherlock’s voice cut through the chatter.

‘Mrs Hudson I think John needs some rest now.’ He declared with the gentle affectionate authority he reserved for their landlady.

‘Oh poor love you’re right, look at him can hardly keep his eyes open. I’ll leave you be.’ She patted John’s head like a dog as she passed Sherlock expertly shepherding her to the door as she fussed about proper food and keeping warm. At the door their footsteps paused and she said in a stage whisper.

‘Now you take care of that man Sherlock, he deserves it. Thing’s he’d do for you, and you know it.’

‘Yes Mrs Hudson.’ Sherlock said in a patient pleasant tone he always used with their landlady even when others would get the sharp end of his tongue, but then in a softer tone, perhaps thinking John wouldn’t hear, ‘I know.’

‘Good boy.’ Mrs Hudson said, and though he couldn’t see John was pretty sure she delivered an affectionate kiss to Sherlock’s cheek, which again he accepted with good grace.

John heard a soft exhale for the door and Sherlock’s footsteps moving towards him, he perched himself in John’s usual chair and rested his elbows on his knees pressing his fingers together fixing John in his gaze. John looked at him for a moment, realising how tired he looked and how this with the large gash across his forehead and red raw burn across his cheek added to his general broken down appearance, a far cry from the immaculate invincible Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock saw him looking and threw him a question with his eyes.

‘You look life shit’ John replied his voice still hoarse from smoke inhalation. Sherlock smiled a half smiled amused but a little sad.

‘So do you’ he replied.

There was a pause as they looked at each other, John sensed a strange tension in his flatmate that had been there since the pool. He threw a question of his own with his eyes.

‘You need to rest’ Sherlock declared, ignoring what John knew perfectly well he’d seen. ‘You should use my room for the time being, less stairs.’

John nodded, sensing a decision had been made, ‘Alright.’ He conceded, ‘Let me lay here a bit first-fed up of beds, pass me that book.’ He gestured to his novel still on the coffee table from before it seemed like such a very long time ago. Sherlock obliged before moving to the window and gazing out at Baker Street. John waited for him to speak to say whatever had been on his mind but nothing came. He tried to concentrate on the book but words began to blur.

John may have dozed off, or simply not heard him move but from behind him there was a pluck of a string indicating Sherlock had picked up his violin, a few plucks of the strings and a minor tune up gave way to a slow mournful piece, relaxing but achingly sad. It seemed vaguely familiar to John but not one of his favourites. Perhaps it had been in a film or on an advert.

John twisted his head as far as he could without disturbing his aching ribs to look at Sherlock. He was playing next to the window his eyes closed a look of deep anguish and sadness on his face as he teased a heart wrenching note from his violin. John inhaled deeply transfixed as the music picked up into a frenzy of discordant notes then calmed into a mournful wail.

He understood as Sherlock picked out a series of delicate piques what he was telling him, what he couldn’t say with words, the pain and yes the guilt he felt for what had happened to John. What he was saying, trying to say, in the same way the music spoke to Sherlock’s emotions the way nothing else did, he spoke through the music, because he couldn’t or didn’t know how to, say it any other way.

John watched him for a long moment, eyes closed against the music as he stained out the last note. He remained still for a moment bow sill poised then opening his eyes directly onto John as if he’d known all along he was being watched. John held his gazed softening his expression, trying, hoping that the strange affinity for communication they’d developed over such a short time was undamaged. After a moment Sherlock nodded and John turned away facing the Victorian moulding of the ceiling and exhaled.

Sherlock picked up the violin and began another piece, soft and wandering with gentle soothing notes. John smiled as his eyes grew heavy, Sherlock was playing a lullaby.

John opened his eyes to bright daylight, for a moment he wondered where he was, a familiar scent of expensive aftershave and floral shampoo wafted over him. He looked down to see a heavy woollen blanket he recognised from Sherlock’s room covering him. He tightened his grip on it, the reality of consciousness assuring him he was home. He heard a soft twang of a violin string to his right. Sherlock was sitting in John’s usual chair, violin in hand plucking idly at the strings.

‘Have you been there all night?’ John asked sleepily.

Sherlock nodded, ‘You’ve slept soundly I see.’

‘Yeah.’ John muttered pushing himself painfully to sitting ‘Yes.’ He locked Sherlock in his gaze.

‘You’re alright?’ Sherlock asked slowly.

‘Yes.’ John winced ‘Fine’ he paused painfully adjusting his aching limbs ‘I will be’ he confessed. He looked at Sherlock ‘Thank you.’ He said gently.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow quizzically then let it go. ‘You need to eat’ he declared.

‘So do you.’ John affirmed. ‘I deduce you haven’t eaten since...what day is it?’

‘Wednesday.’

‘Then since...what day was it...’

Sherlock inhaled ‘Saturday’ he paused ‘Correct, I don’t count what they forced into me in the hospital as food.’

‘Right. We’re going out then. And then you’re doing the shopping with me.’

Sherlock huffed in protest, carefully set down his violin then wordlessly and with no pity came and helped John to his feet, holding onto his arm and guiding him towards the door.

‘Sherlock’ John said

‘Mmm’ his companion replied.

‘Nothing.’ He said losing courage.

‘John?’ Sherlock raised an eyebrow in concern.

‘No, nothing it’s just.’ He paused ‘Play some Mozart tonight, yes?’ he asked. As he said it he looked down but squeezed the other man’s arm gently as Sherlock guided him down the stairs. As he brought him down the narrow staircase Sherlock raised a hand up to steady him, but squeezed back just a fraction, daring to stay a moment longer than necessary.


End file.
